


Unrepentant

by Cherith



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherith/pseuds/Cherith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birthday present for theivorytowercrumbles.</p><p>A short piece in which Mhairi fondly remembers the time she spent with Ser Cauthrien, several months after the marriage of King Cailan and Queen Anora.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unrepentant

A month after the royal wedding, though Mhairi was far from Denerim, she found herself unable to shake the city and all it held from her thoughts.  She had taken no souvenirs from the celebrations around the city during the wedding festivities, only her memories of a quiet morning in the palace training yard.  That memory was longer-lasting than the trinkets others had taken away.  At night safely tucked in a bedroll, she allowed herself a few flights of fantasy, dreams that her unit might be called back to the city and assigned something closer to the palace.  Mhairi knew there was little chance that anything had changed in life or would change; there would be no grand declarations, but dreaming there could be, did little harm.   

That was her life: her dreams.  She used them to push her through each day, caught in a web of the things that could be, the greatness of others that had been, the freedom of what was to come.  At night, her dreams were more mundane, full of lovely faces, soft sighs and her own wandering fingertips between her thighs.

Most days, Mhairi likes to think she’s a different type of woman.  That she’s the type of woman that can walk away. She’s done it before many times, walked away from her life or a lover to find a new one.  Nothing lasts but names, she thinks, not even the fond memories of times she’s spent in another’s arms.  Not even if that person is Ser Cauthrien.  She told herself that if she tried hard enough, thoughts of dew-covered grass and the feel of sweat-slicked flesh would go away, and leave her far behind.

A second month goes by and the memories have not faded.  The makeshift training yard that travels with them has become her solace, both an escape from and reminder of, that specific morning, still vivid in her mind. She exhausted herself when there was little else to do, hoping to chase the memories away.  But, she ached with the remembered hunger of that morning, and found little comfort in training or marching, or anything that didn’t end with a pleasant and overwhelming release at her own hands.

She wondered, in those times she spends late at night, breathing quietly under her blanket, where Ser Cauthrien might be.  Was she too tucked away, ready for sleep?  Did her eyes close and unbidden, trace the path of Mhairi’s body from vivid memory?  Hers did.  She remembered the impact of the small shield broken on her arm, the way the knight’s arms encircled her as they both fell to the ground, and how her clothes were only the briefest of deterrents for the other woman’s eager hands.

As the third month neared, her unit was camped near Redcliffe as the work with the Arl and trained up new men and women for neighboring villages.  And Mhairi was realizing that time was not helping.  It only made the longing worse, and she did something she thought she would never do.  She penned a letter to the knight, in the hopes she might exorcise Cauthrien from her thoughts.

> _Ser Cauthrien,  
>   
>  It has been three months, nearly to do the day, since the royal wedding.  Though, if I am to send this, it might well be more by the time you receive this letter.  I hope this letter finds you in good health, and please forgive my presumption that you might concern yourself with this letter at all.  
>   
>  I am writing to thank you.  My time in Denerim was brief, but has proved to be an entirely persistent and incredibly fond memory.  Thank you, for that.  Should you find yourself near Redcliffe in the future, I would hope to see you.   
>   
>  Perhaps I could also hope that you might see me again were I near Denerim?  Not as that seems likely. The word is that we will be here, for sometime time.  
>   
>  So, from Redcliffe I wish the Maker’s blessings on you,_  
>  _Yours in service,  
>  Mhairi_

It was another week before she worked up the courage to have the letter sent to Denerim.  In that week, she read it over several times.  There was nothing in it that might mean anything significant to any other reader, though she worried over her word choice several times.  In the end she decided to send it anyway, with a rapidly scrawled addition before she handed it over:

> _As First Day approaches, please accept the attached, sent with my gratitude and admiration.  
>  Mhairi_

Wrapped in a bright cloth and sent with the letter, she included a small statue of Andraste.  She was not normally one for such sentimentality, but the statue called to her in a way that reminded her of the way _Sweet Andraste_ had been whispered in her ears.  She could think of little better way to show her affection than with that gift.  Flowers would wilt, and Cauthrien did not seem the type for brightly colored baubles or jewels.  Armor would have been appropriate, but would not have been greater than what the woman wore already.

With the letter sent, her mind eased somewhat, enough that she could see to her training without less distraction. ( _Two weeks to Denerim, two weeks back, barring inclement weather, her mind calculated the trip, on the event there was to be a letter in return._ ) At least for a month.  She could wait for anything that long.


End file.
